Singer
What if each time you spoke
you used up a little of your voice
and when you ran out
you'd never speak again?
Of course the rich have their ways around it. Probably ripping the voiceboxes out of the poor. Speaking more than a few words is reserved for them. Everyone else carries around little boards to write on or learn some form of sign language. The government protects us. Teaches us bits of hand sign here and there. Luckily we've evolved. Experts think we can say approximately 500 words in our lifetime. Urban rumors say that you could die without a voice. I'm not sure if that's metaphorical or not. Oh well. Not that I'll ever use any of them. Or anyone really. How much is a new voice worth? So limited. I've probably heard no more than 6 or 7 words in my entire life. And I'm considered lucky. Most are constricted to simply listening to audiotapes. But our ears have evolved so much that it's garbled. You can never exactly understand what they say, and who would waste their precious voice on recording new ones. I've been told voices are beautiful. Not any of those that I've ever heard. I work as a housekeeper for an ultra rich suburban family. I think they're some type of politicians. But as my mother always wrote, don't open your mouth, don't write questions, don't hear a gift horse neigh. Giant mansion, elevators just to get from the basement to the top floor. But I've been blessed. All the words I've heard had been quick impulsive orders between the family. I have had the mother, the one who signs my paychecks, say a whole real word to me. She called me a P-R-I-C-K. I wonder what that means. It sounds beautiful. Her voice rang out in my ears, to be played forever. To waste a whole word on me shows how highly valued I am. I haven't ever had anyone say anything directly to me.
The mother walks by. She claps, her way of getting my attention. She signs
you me follow here
At least I think. Sign language classes aren't that great and my limited education certainly doesn't help. I run after her. She rolls her eyes, clearly sensing my incompetence. She whips out a pristine ivory tablet. She writes in a quick clean swooping cursive that I am to accompany her to some kind of government service. I suppose the man who usually does this is out today.
I follow her through the mansion and into a white limousine. We remain quiet the entire brief ride. I step into the driver's seat. She points at each street and where to go. Finally, we arrive at a gloomy official building. I open her door. She gestures at me to follow. I assumed I would just be her driver but I suppose she needs hired help with something else. Perhaps polishing her shoes.
We walk in. It is a large room, seating maybe 600 people. In the centre is a dirt and sand area, with giant screens encasing us in the room. Perhaps my mother would have called it an arena. I walk the mother to her seat. She hands me her purse. Ah, I realize I am here to hold her stuff so she can focus. A man walks out. The screens announce him as a high ranking government official. They state he is punishing some type of "unnatural person".
A child walks out. Maybe she's in her early teens. She seems normal.
The screens shudder. They state she is blind.
Blindness is considered a sin. How else could anyone get around? How could you understand anyone? Good on them for taking her out of her misery. If anything maybe they should have done this sooner.
They allow her to choose the chair that will take her out forever. It will deliver soothing drugs into her system, causing a calm peaceful overdose.
Barely a teenager, she chooses a small sturdy comforting one. It's a wonder she knows which is which. She sits down for the last time.
The screens blink
You words any final?
Then they remember she cannot see. An official walks over and taps a pattern on the girl's hand. She seems to understand. Usually people refuse to ever use their words, even upon death. Strangely she nods. How immature. Perhaps she will cry out for her mother. They plunge the needle into her arm. This means she has roughly two minutes to say her words according to the screen. Plenty of time. She opens her mouth. Her words sound strange, melodic, almost in harmony, rhythmic.
"Singing" the mother mutters.
The girl continues. I don't know what it is supposed to sound like. It reminds me of the sound of the wind, the ocean, my childhood, life itself. Her voice, high and nervous, but accepting of her fate. She stretches each word so it might as well be eight. She makes eye contact with me, eyes glassy and blue, never faltering her song.
After a minute and a half the words die on her lips.
Monday week 2
(hey wanted to try something new. These are all of the guy's possible point of views of my post Monday. It's still pretty stand alone so if you don't want to read Monday this will still make sense)
She's strange
Talks too loud
Huh
I wonder why she keeps texting me
Funny I guess
I mean we are friends
Oh well
****
It's kind of obvious she likes me
I mean duh
why else does she keep talking to me
spilling the beans on weird shit no one wants to know
I mean her friends know about me
Like
lil sus huh
not really hiding it that well bud
Oh well
I mean we're friends
i dont really know what to say
I figured I should text first occasionally
I mean she literally told me that Im cute
Nice to know someone thinks that I guess
Never know how to respond when she texts weird shit
Oh well
sucks to be her
****
Ugh this bitch again
why is she like this
keeps texting me
like ugh just leave me alone
and she says weird shit
it makes me uncomfortable
strange dark sense of humor
like yeah
ill make communist jokes
but like not like her
leave me alone please
****
Oh her?
Yeah we're friends
good texter I guess
but im just obnoxiously shitty at it
so yeah I steal some stuff from the way she texts
Yeah she's funny
laughs at my shitty jokes
Yeah shes cool
I guess that's just how girls are
not friends with many of them
i wouldnt really know
nothings really changed since we became friends
appreciate her not letting me get heatstroke from a mascot costume
not much else to say ya know
its whatever
****
Huh never really thought about it
She's okay I guess
Not a lot in common but whatever
****
I mean it's really obvious she likes me
Like really obvious
I mean I guess it's nice to have someone think I'm attractive
Like I'm nothing special
never really been noticed by girls before
Huh
I kind of wish she'd stop though
Like I don't really know how to react
Lucky she only says weird shit over text
Nice opportunity to think
I don't like her like that
It's nice
but I'd rather go back to before she liked me
I mean we're friends
like she's cool
Oh well
I'll figure it out
****
Its painfully obvious she likes me
Like please stop
It's actually getting depressing
like a sad little puppy
I mean you're just embarrassing yourself
Like we aren't that great of friends
and I'm not into her
****
what?
you think she likes me?
honestly that would explain a lot
****
what?
you think she likes me?
nah shes just weird
****
eww girls
****
what if I like her?
Writing
I've never been a writer. I was always the kid struggling for a C- in English classes. I just didn't get it. I had ideas. Great ideas, even. But I just couldn't think of how to execute. What dialogue to use, insightful comments on a piece of evidence. And as the resident smart kid, it was really fucking hard. Until high school. I realized poetry, character pieces were for me. Because who really cares about dialogue in emotion. I mastered my craft. However, I always needed a more dramatic ending. What's a better ending than a shock? Better yet. What's a better shock than killing off the main character? Naturally cynical, I lived for the drama, the type of ending line that makes you rethink a whole piece. I guess that leaked into my work, while reality blended with my stories. I think the ease in killing off a character made me value life a lot less. I started taking stupid risks. My father always told me that the way you talk and act influences your mental state. As my work got darker, so did my outlook. But I could never get anyone to read it. So horribly frustrating. I knew my shit was better than anything on the market. I guess that's how I ended up in this predicament. It was so easy. It made me want more every time I got away with it. And I would document every time I did it and somehow the books sold double. Apparently I was a crazy genius. No one had to know it was real. I could stop at a bookstore, see who was outselling me, and take care of it. Of them. It was just too easy. Honestly, I expected some resistance. Sneaking into someone's house in the dead of night, turning on their stove at first. Watching them die peacefully in their sleep. But I became an addict, much like my father. Unlike him, bloodshed was my cigarettes. The chase became more fun, and exhilarating until I was forging suicide notes, whispering in their ears to drive them mad for years. I could turn any author from beloved to psycho in a matter of weeks. It was beautiful. Watching the life leave their eyes, last breaths leave their bodies. I guess it gave me control. And I guess I'm the last psycho author. The last ten years have been fun, but like my father learned, eventually all the cigarettes in the world stop working. Didn't take much for him to see that bridge and drive straight off. I wonder what he would think of me now. His darling baby boy, a murderer. I know I'm not a good person. Everyone has their demons, and I lost the battle to mine. Just like my dear old dad, my brain cries for bloodshed. Now it's not for anyone else's. It's mine. So after a decade of forging suicide notes, its time to write my own. Ironic how life gets you. So dear reader, I hope you realize that I am not a genius, a mastermind. Just a really shitty writer, swept up in his craft. Goodbye forever.
Monday
I've never really liked someone
But he's different
I don't know why
He's cute i suppose
He acts like a big silly goof
like a golden retriever
He doesn't get all my jokes
but he tries
I wonder why
I hated him
I would pray he would quit our extracurricular activity
I had to see him
twice a week for two months
and lord i hated him
he just rubbed me the wrong way
and then i just
didn't
by then everything had calmed down
we went back to him going once a week: Monday
me going twice
different days though
and i was so relieved
until one day i took a monday
i dont know why
i probably just had to miss my day
but i didnt hate him anymore
his jokes didnt make me want to go deaf
his mockery turned funny
and then slowly i realized
i like this boy
I dont know when it clicked
maybe when he finally cut his hair
maybe when I sent him that first text
it was stupid and a chore to text
but slowly it became more natural
texting all day everyday
we had an event
he was the mascot
got heatstroke
cried that he wanted to leave
and when I went to check on him
it hit me
i didn't want him to leave
not just because i didn't want to wear the costume
and i couldnt piece together why
im realizing i like him and im
crush'd
i dont know what to do
i added mondays to see him more
reread our texts after he goes to sleep
he told me he would start taking tuesdays
my day
he said it was for the extra class
but he's had a full year
and's told me he hates that class
so why would he change
i screenshot our conversations to send to my friends
they dont know him
and id like to keep it that way
and everytime i go
i dont like him
my phone goes off
and my heart flutters
i dont know why
nothing could ever come of this
and im stuck
not subtle
but horribly stuck
he steals my slang
remembers more than i thought he would
stares then looks away real fast
tells me about his friends
brushes the surface of his life
i know he cant swallow pills
he knows i cant whistle
i dont think he likes me
its confusing
and i dont know if he treats me differently than anyone else
i guess he wont know until i get over this
ughhhh
liking people sucks
its supposed to be fun
youre excited
you text all your friends
you feel like your on cloud nine
or so I've been told
but this is just constant yoyo-ing
do i hate him
do i like him
because i think i do but its weird to say out loud
i feel like im supposed to be more nervous
but im not
i give up
i just count down the days until monday
I don’t know if I can try again
They always leave
I start the same way every time
they become my new obsession
I tell them everything
It feels right
maybe they can stay this time
All of us, together, we spill everything
they become the people I can lean on
and for once I have people
they know
almost
everything
but no one can know everything about me
It depends on the group but as soon as I reveal too much about myself
They freak out
or we ‘grow apart’
Time after time
Constant, a vicious cycle
and at this point, so many failed
and I realize no one wants to know the real me
everytime the mask drops
so do they.
I don’t know if I want to try again
no, I dont know if I can try again
how much am I asked to go through
Afterall no mask can stay up forever
is it worth more to be accepted in a mask
and I dont mean any of that kindergarten bullshit
’no be yourself’
But what if myself isn’t good enough
I’ve learned too much I shouldnt
then I see them on the street
and we‘re strangers
thats what happens everytime
because i love having people
to talk to
to lean on
and.It’s so hard to be alone
but is it even worth it
can I try again
I need an answer
so many
and I have new people
but how long will it last
they do not worry, for they will never be ditched
In all the world there is not one person who would choose me first
ive accepted this but it hurts
What are my options
the mask is slipping
but i am becoming the mask
my face becomes more twisted, angry each time
but for now they can believe it
the ‘funny one’
I hate being the funny one
the funny one is always the worst one
the funny one is the ones whos eyes hold insecurity and imposter syndrome
the one who grew up to fast
I dont think I’m ready to try again
Orange with envy
Orange is bland, boring
its just a bright brown
and it is the only colors without an emotion
red is anger, yellow is happiness
green is jealousy.
But why?
why green?
green is nature
green is yellow and blue
happiness and sadness
but for me jealousy has never been sad
jealousy, red with wrath,
burning, screaming
fire, i deserved that
not them
never them
but then you feel
jea lousy
They’re your friend
you should be happy for them
you don a mask of yellow
ive never met someone who’s favorite color was orange
passed up by everyone
its too freakish, too weird, too stable
so is jealousy
its always there
so you get rid of it
fake sadness rather than resentment
But you’ll always be
orange with envy
Deal at Dennys
I check my watch. 9:36. He was supposed to be here a half hour ago. Shit. He's probably being tailed.
I should probably explain. I won't though. It's much too complicated, and I wouldn't even know where to start. I'm not one of those sappy "here's my life story" types. If there's anything life's taught me, I'm aware you couldn't give a shit about me.
He's our client. I don't know his name, and I have no desire to find out. We've been switching areas to avoid suspicion because I can't deal with cops on my ass. He must be good too. He never drops any hints. So I'm sitting in a shithole Denny's way earlier than I'd want to be. Like who meets at 9? But he always pays up.
He's not clean. Almost everyone is a mess. Twitching eyes, constantly licking their lips. Those are the signs the true addicts have given up on hiding. He calls too often to be a cop. If he did would've been brought to the Sugar Distributer Penitentiary.
King Kandy is known for his generosity. Except to normies. If he knew I was selling off my special acid trip licorice I would be dead. I know, so cliche. Yeah.
My name is Raymond Licorice. Never did forgive Ma for that one. Of course. The bad guy, getting poor innocent souls hooked on sugar.
Come on. I live in a cave. I'm not exactly rolling in dough here.
The client sits down. As always, clad in long brown trench coat, double rows of black buttons gleam like diamonds. A mask obscures his face, a hood covers his hair. Good grief, he looks like a third-grader's idea of a secret agent. He comes with a briefcase. Grey, cheap. Good. We both know it must be untraceable. He's just some rich asshole hooked on the taffy. Oh well.
"One pack RedVines, 15 grams of the black swirls" He says.
Of course I am more than supplied. A whole pack of RedVines? For a normie that could knock him out for a week. I wonder if he suspects where I get the merchandise. I wonder if he knows that I am the Lord of Licorice himself. I doubt he even knows about Candyland.
"1800" I price
He looks equally nonchalant
"1400"
He drives a hard bargain. It costs me about 10 bucks but whatever he'll fall for.
Surprised? What else would I be dealing in? Gumdrops? King Kandy changed our currency after the Gumdrop Revolution III. Whoever he can fuck over he will. Especially his dear uncle Raymond and his Gran.
"1600 take it or leave it" I reply
He nods and passes over the briefcase.
I open it. Gotta check. I watch his expression. Then I notice. He's moving halfway through him. It's like his lower body is fighting with his top half. Addicts do strange things, but this shouldn't be possible for anyone but... Gloppy.
Fuck. I'm getting busted.
And by Gloppy? He wouldn't be able to find his Chocolate Swamp and he's attached to it. (Or maybe it's him?)(Honestly, I don't care enough to ask)
"Alright fine Gloppy. You caught me." I mutter, hoping to gain the brown blobs' mercy.
"What's gloppy?" asks Gloppy, in a strangely high nervous voice that doesn't resemble Gloppy's deep, mascotish, dumb chortle.
"Take off the coat!" I yell
Slowly he takes it off. What the fuck is happening? It's two kids , no older than 10, sitting on top of eachother. He- or should I say they, shrugs guiltily.
Fuck this. And that, dear reader, is why I no longer go to Dennys.
(Hey thanks for reading. This is my first attempt at doing an actual short story. It may get continued, it may not. )
The Man Behind the Mirror
I am the man behind the mirror
I am nameless,
loving to some
a plague for others
i show them what they dont want to see
but mostly i show the truth
i show the truths they are too afraid to accept
i am the reason teenage girls hide
ogling me
ogling themselves
because i can show them whatever i want
but i choose truth
truth is hard
everyone looks at the mirror differently
i create insecurity
i create unworthiness
i create ugliness
i become what i create
hideous
Many have seen themselves
but never me
i am but a figment of their imagination
until
a girl
her name; Madilynn
obnoxiously spelled much like her
no more than sixteen
i despise Madilynn
how can she look at me
smile
shrug
leave
no fear
no hate
shes not attractive
while harsh to say about a child
it astounds me
how
Madilynns friends all gossip
too ugly for anyone
they say
but she
smiles
shrugs
and leaves
how can she not feel pain
the pain that envelops me and all others that view my images
the fear
the insecurity
the longing for change
the jealousy
it shapes each person through childhood
wishing to look like someone else
to not look like themselves
twisting away from my creations
from the truth
taking it into their own hands to craft my creations
A desperate bid for control
while i show truth
i do make exceptions
for those who deserve it
and i make sure everyone hates me
and if they dont
i take it into my own hands
a few slight alterations
months in the gym
tens of thousands spent on surgery
all gone
its nice having self esteem in my grasp
i dont even have the freedom of a name
why not steal their identity
and Madilynn
so happy
how could she be
editing her image
nothing
no rage
no despair
no insecurity
no crying
but how?
thats when i hear
Why is she like this
and she cries
seeing her matching black eyes
once not doctored by my own manipulation
fury at someone who could withstand my wrath
gone
Perhaps i am the man behind the mirror
the man of ether
the monster under the bed
the nightmares
the horrors
the pain
the suffering
but perhaps
I can just be the man behind the mirror
a protector
viewer of the truth
Karen
We locked eyes in a Subway
although I wish we hadn’t
She was gorgeous
She ordered the Meatball Marinara special,
proving her disdain and lack of experience in deli meat consumption
Meatball Marinara!
In a fine establishment like this!
The outrage
It would have been unforgivable if she had not been so astoundingly attractive
Her clothes, a top the color of blood, a warning of the chaos she causes
her shoes, stilettos completely unpractical for the winter in anywhere but LA
Her nose, the perfect slope of y= x squared
Her eyes, the same eclectic blue of laundry detergent, although she clearly wouldn’t know
The same glint of frustration and determination of a weed whacker in an impossibly large front yard
She snaps her fingers at an employee
soft hands, un calloused neither by manual labor nor the works of life
She rolls her eyes, snarling
Like when you step in a puddle wearing socks
The employee does not catch on, or does not care, about her annoyance
He simply cuts her chosen bread and carries on
He puts peppers on her sandwich
Oh the mistake he hath made
He shalt unleash the fury that resides within
She screams, a bellow of pain, of personal attack
Why, she acts as if he has personally slew her firstborn child
She demands to be brought the manager as tribute immediately
When he reveals that he hath been the manager all along it enrages her
Her hair, the color of american cheese slices, appears in an updo resting over her head
Hastily tied up, to prepare for her battle with authority
How dare her waive her autonomy, assuming she would like peppers? She demands
She will not receive any answer
She angrily pops her bubblegum, snapping it in the face of the manager
He rolls his eyes and sighs
It is the pristine image of an old cowboy duel
The Connecticut Subway may as well be Texas in 1870s
It iss practically playing the old Western music
It is human nature to be glued to viewing this event
Unable to look or look away
Like watching a car accident on the side of the highway,
knowing someone is going to perish
The manager should not have been so foolish as to engage
When going against a Karen, the battle has already been lost
Boots
These boots were once for walking. Long ago, perhaps. Now they hold feet, attached to ankles, but no body to contend with. Alone, yet together, the perfect pair, or quadrant I suppose. But what was I meant to do? My two bestfriends. I thought I could trust them. They claimed they weren’t “together”, not now, not ever. So when I found out what was I to do? They were all I had. And they would leave me. Alone. And they insisted on those stupid matching boots. Red meant love for them, rage for me. A pair for each, obtained in our trip around the world.Then why did I not get any? Four boots doesn’t work out for three people. A pair is two, never three. Two’s a party, Three’s a crowd. I knew sooner or later they would get sick of me. Take their perfect little relationship to the next country, or across the globe. They can’t leave if they don’t have feet. So what if they’re dead? Just the three of us, together forever.